King of Battle and Blood (Adrian X Isolde #1)(104)

I did not care for the greater good.

I wanted what was good for me, what would ensure I lived long enough to save my mother’s people, protect those I called my own, defeat Ravena, and become queen of all who would harm me.

That was my greater good.

Beside me, Adrian looked solemn, and I knew it was both because he knew my hurt and because he had not been here to help me. My chest tightened at how he’d looked at me, how he’d sworn a second oath, an oath he had said he would never offer, and yet that was how I knew he loved me.

“What happens now?” I asked.

We watched as a guard moved forward to light the pyre. The fire caught quickly. It reminded me of how fast it had consumed the wood at my feet two hundred years ago.

The flames burned hot, and normally, I would try to keep my distance, the fear of flames and smoke a trigger, but this time, I did not move, and I watched my father’s body burn through blurry eyes.

“We must find and kill Ravena,” he said. “I imagine she will continue attempting to perfect her mist.”

The attack on Cel Ceredi had taken many lives. Those funerals would be held in the coming days. Among those we would bury was Isla, Ana’s lover.

I glanced at Ana, pale and quiet, and reached for her hand.

She did not look at me—she hadn’t looked at anyone since Isla’s death, but she squeezed my hand, and at least that was a comfort. I could not imagine what she was going through. In truth, I did not want to know, but I felt for her in a way that made my chest ache and guilt settle heavily upon my heart. I had not been able to even broach the subject with her, too consumed in my own strange grief.

“And King Gheroghe?” I asked. “When will he pay for what he did to my people?”

“Soon, Sparrow,” Adrian said.

The pyre collapsed, and Father’s body crashed to the stone ground, sending sparks and ash flying. I watched, unblinking as every bit of him was reduced to ash. Until there were only scorched bones left, and it was as I saw the eyes of his skull—vacant and full of smoke and fire—that I remembered why I’d written The Book of Dis.

It was a book of spells. It was a book of dark magic.

The kind High Coven had outlawed.

The kind that could raise the dead.





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   A Game of Fate

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Make someone fall in love with you.

The words were a cruel taunt that echoed in Hades’s mind as he prowled the darkness of his club to clear his head.

Perhaps he had gone too far in criticizing Aphrodite’s choice to ask Zeus for a divorce, but Hades knew the goddess loved Hephaestus, and rather than admit it, she thought to force the God of Fire into expressing his feelings by goading him. What Aphrodite failed to understand was that not everyone worked like she did, least of all Hephaestus. If she won his love, it would be through patience, kindness, and attention.

It would mean she would have to be vulnerable, something Aphrodite, goddess and warrior, despised.

And if he understood anything, it was that. Aphrodite’s challenge forced him to acknowledge his own vulnerabilities, his weaknesses. He frowned at the notion of finding someone who wanted to carry his shame, his sins, his malice, but if he failed, the Fates would get involved, and he knew what they would require if he returned Basil to the land of the living.

A soul for a soul.

Someone would have to die, and he would not have a say in the Fates’ victim.

The thought made his body tighten, another thread added to the others marring his skin. He hated it, but it was the price of maintaining balance in the world.

A smell brought him out of his thoughts and gave him pause. It was familiar—wildflowers, both bitter and sweet.

Demeter, he thought.

The Goddess of Harvest’s name was sour on his tongue. Demeter had few passions in life, but one of them was her hatred for the God of the Dead.

He inhaled again, taking the scent deeper. Something about it was off. Mingled with the familiar aroma was the sweetness of vanilla and a mild, herbal note of lavender. A mortal, perhaps? Someone with the goddess’s favor?

The scent drew him out of the darkness in which he had lingered to the edge of the balcony, where he scanned the crowd and found her immediately.

The woman who smelled like vanilla, lavender, and his enemy sat poised on the edge of one of his sofas in a pink dress that left little to the imagination. He liked the way her hair curled, falling in luminous waves down her back. His fingers itched to touch it, to pull it until her head tipped back and she looked him in the eyes.

Look at me, he commanded, desperate to see her face.

She seemed to look everywhere before her gaze halted on him. His hand tightened around his glass, the other gripped the balcony rail.

She was beautiful—lush lips, high cheekbones, and eyes as green as new spring. Her expression was startled at first, eyes widening slightly, transforming into something fierce and passionate as her gaze swept his face and form.

She is yours, a voice echoed in his head, and something inside him snapped. Claim her.

The command was feral. He had to grind his teeth to keep from obeying, and he thought he might shatter the glass in his hand from clutching it too tight. The impulse to whisk her away to the Underworld was strong, like a spell. He had never thought himself so weak, but his restraint was a thin, frayed thread.